


Life's a Beach

by sydkn3e



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Purgatory, Crowley Just Wants Solitude, Gen, Sam and Dean Are So Done
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-28
Updated: 2017-05-28
Packaged: 2018-11-06 01:58:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 773
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11026218
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sydkn3e/pseuds/sydkn3e
Summary: Crowley finally gets the solitude he craves in the Alternate Universe Purgatory.Sitting on the beach, a drink in his hand, no one in sight...finally free of those denim-wrapped nightmares.Everything is perfect until he encounters a certain red-headed Scottish witch.





	Life's a Beach

**Author's Note:**

  * For [39feathers](https://archiveofourown.org/users/39feathers/gifts).



> This is a drabble I wrote for 39feather's artwork. Enjoy!

Purgatory isn’t somewhere anyone would expect to be particularly nice. Not really. It’s a dry, endless wasteland of nearly bare trees, dirt, and rock, littered with the reanimated corpses of everything evil that once walked the earth. And if you managed to piss off said evil things while still occupying earth, you entered Purgatory with an automatic target on your back.

But hey, it’s better than Hell. At least there isn’t a line.

Lucky for Crowley, most of the Purgatory-dwelling monsters are too afraid of him to actively pursue him. Hence why now, two weeks in, he’s sitting on one of the washed out beaches, in nothing but swim trunks, sipping on a hard lemonade complete with purple bendy straw and a tiny yellow umbrella. He’s already found and befriended one of the Alternate Universe hellhounds, whom he lovingly nicknamed Little Dean, as he didn’t recognize the mutt as one of his. Little Dean seemed to enjoy the company, lying lazily by Crowley’s lounge chair, occasionally getting up to romp around in the murky water.

Purgatory beaches aren’t particularly nice either, as one might imagine. They’re cold and overcast, and a typically popular place for creatures to hang out, as it’s one of the only known watering holes in the area. If you can call salty, dirty ocean water a good source of drinking water.

But nonetheless, Crowley’s enjoying himself. It’s quiet and he’s finally getting some time to himself, without the incessant whining of demons or the constant paperwork looming over his head. Most importantly, he made a real difference in the real world, sacrificing himself to help lock away Lucifer ONCE AGAIN, and in turn saving the lives of the Winchesters.

Again.

“I should’ve checked out away from those denim-wrapped nightmares a long time ago.” He says in a raspy voice, to no one in particular. He gives a quick look around, half expecting to hear one of the two flannel-clad giants snarking back at him.

Silence.

He gives a small smirk and puts on his sunglasses, then lowers his head to the lounge chair. He hears Little Dean return to his spot beside the chair, then a loud huff as he plops himself down in the gray sand.

“Royals pains in my ass.” Crowley mutters, taking a long sip from his straw and smacking his lips a little at the tartness of the lemonade. “But I s'pose the Winchesters weren't all bad. When the world needed saving, I knew where to place my bets.”

He sits up, pushing his sunglasses up to his forehead, and looks down at the hellhound.

“Dean, your namesake...” he gestured at the hound, chuckling softly to himself, “...Squirrel. He was my best friend for awhile. Life of the party, that one. And Moose...he's as smart as they come.”

He snorts at the memories.

“Bastards were the closest thing I had to friends. To family.”

The hound huffed at his feet.

“I wasn't always as good as I should've been to them. And I'm not sure they ever really liked me either...but the antics were entertaining, nonetheless.” He gazes out over the water, watching as small waves lap at the beach. “I'll miss the little prats.”

He gives a small smirk and lays back once more, readjusting the glasses over his eyes and closing them, relaxing his muscles. There's only the sound of Little Dean panting and water trickling, and everything is the way it should be. Unassuming. Peaceful.

Until a shrill voice pierces through the quiet, the strong Scottish accent raising goosebumps on Crowley's arms and making his hair stand on end.

“Ferrrrgussss!”

Crowley's eyes pop open and he tenses. He scrambles to his feet, internally cursing as his beverage slips and lands in the sand below him. And there she is, as red-haired and pompous as ever, strutting toward him in a barely-there dress, holding an umbrella over her over-privileged head.

Rowena.

Wonderful. Can’t escape from the bitch, even in an alternate universe.

“Fergus, my boy! Is that you?”

Without a word, Crowley pulls out a small blade and slashes his left arm, allowing the blood to puddle in his right hand. He quickly whispers an incantation, side-eyeing his evil witch of a mother making her way across the sand.

The blood begins to bubble, and he hears a voice on the other end of the “line”.

“Not Moose!” He whispers desperately. “Never thought I'd be happy to hear your voice again! Poughkeepsie! For the love of Chuck, Poughkeepsie!”

There's laughter from Squirrel's end, then a dial tone. Crowley falls to his knees as Rowena approaches, smiling smugly.

Crowley sighs, defeated.

“Bollocks.”


End file.
